The healers carried the litter into a small chamber then carefully lowered it to the stone floor. The walls of the room were cleanly whitewashed with lime, and Denethor saw that a narrow channel ran around the edge of the floor and emptied into a drain. The windows faced south for light, and oil lamps were set on a ledge along one wall. A brazier of charcoal burned in the corner; the air seemed very close and warm.
He watched as Boromir helped them lift the wounded man to the long table, then Denethor and his elder son stepped back so they would not be in the way. The healers worked with the swiftness that comes from long practice. Faramir was cut out of his linen shirt and his injured shoulder was bathed, then a warm coverlet was spread over him. His eyes were still hazed with poppy wine, and he seemed half asleep.
A healer brought a tray of bright knives and cautery irons; the instruments were set down where the wounded man could not see them. The long-handled irons would be heated in the brazier then used to burn away the tainted flesh and seal any severed arteries. On the battlefield, Denethor had watched the healers using these instruments. Even after drugging him, they would have to restrain Faramir to keep him still as they worked.
"Now, my lord, I must ask you to leave," the warden said; he and the apothecary already wore white aprons over their clothing.
Denethor nodded slightly. The chamber was small, and it was better that he and Boromir wait without. Leaning over the table, he said quietly, "Faramir."
Eyes half-closed, his younger son murmured a few words.
"Faramir," Denethor repeated more loudly.
The grey eyes opened wide, and Faramir's clouded gaze wandered for a moment until he perceived the men standing over him. "Father. And Boromir. I thought that I heard you, but dreams and waking seem much…the same. Well-dosed with poppies." His eyes turned to the bright light from the windows. "What place is this?" To his father's great relief, he showed no alarm, seeming only sleepy and bemused.
Denethor glanced at the waiting healers and said simply, "You are in Minas Tirith. Your brother and I must leave for a time, but soon we will rejoin you." His iron-grey head bowed as he bent down to kiss his son on the brow. Boromir stepped forward and did the same.
"Why do you weep?" Faramir smiled slightly at his brother. His voice sounded very faint and drowsy. "There is no cause for it." Boromir gave a choked cry and hid his face in his hands.
The garden was deserted save for robins hunting worms in the newly-turned earth. Under a gnarled plum tree, Denethor sat on a low bench and watched as his elder son paced back and forth. When Boromir sat in the steward's black seat, he would have to learn to wait in stillness under the eyes of the counselors and captains. Despite his guarded speech and careful ways, Denethor possessed that same restless spirit; and he had found it a difficult lesson, that schooling in outward calm.
Boromir turned at the end of the flagstone path then suddenly stopped. Nearby, the gardeners had left several long poles propped against the wall. While Denethor had learned the uses of herbs, he knew little of gardening. Perhaps the staves were needed to prop up the aging branches of the plum tree. His son picked up one of the poles and hefted it in his hands. It was nearly his height.
"By your leave, Father," Boromir asked with a bleak smile. "This idle waiting will drive me mad." Denethor nodded, and the young man walked over to the greensward by the fountain. He still wore the travel-stained clothes, and his boots were scuffed and muddy from marching in the woods. From the time he first could walk, he never picked up a stick that did not turn into a sword, Denethor thought. Or a spear, he added to himself as Boromir raised one end of the makeshift weapon over his head and then swung it downward in a sharp strike. The movements were tense and broken as his son quickly moved through a series of drills; with a misguided blow, he beheaded a row of flowers. A spray of bright red petals shot into the air.
Like drops of blood, the steward could not help thinking, and his heart caught at him as he remembered the tray of knives. And he saw again the dazed yet loving smile that Faramir had given him even as he had leaned down to bid his younger son farewell. Denethor knew he must not dwell on these things; instead, he rose from the bench and walked about the garden. Forcing himself to look closely at each herb, he tried to recall its name in Quenya and the proper use for root, leaf, and flower.
At last, a healer came to fetch them. The wait had seemed too long to bear, yet the sun was still above Mount Mindolluin and less than two hours had passed.
They followed the healer down the corridor and past the white-washed chamber. Denethor glanced through the open doorway. The long table was empty, and a healer with a wooden bucket was sluicing water across the floor. At the end of the passage, they were led into a small but airy chamber. The room overlooked the herb gardens, and tall windows lined two walls. The day was mild so the wooden shutters were thrown open to let in the sunlight. Faramir lay asleep on the bed, his face as white as the linen sheets; but even from the doorway, Denethor could see the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Soft coverlets were drawn closely around him, and a woolen shawl was draped about his head and neck. A bright fire burned in the small fireplace, and a pile of smooth stones sat warming on the hearth. A young healer, holding a stone in her hands, bowed as they entered. Then she returned to her task, wrapping the heated stones in soft cloths and tucking them next to Faramir.
As they entered the room, the warden stepped forward to meet them. "My lord, Lord Faramir fainted away as soon as we started our work. He still lies in a swoon and will not awake for at least a few hours. It is no cause for alarm, and now that the morbid flesh is cut away, his fever will soon abate."
"Then he will live?" Denethor asked in a rough, low voice.
"I deem it likely, my lord, though he must be tended with great care."
Leaning over his son, Denethor touched his brow then quickly drew back his hand. The skin felt cool and damp. He could smell the sour vinegar that was used to bathe his wounds, and mingled with that, the iron scent of blood.
Chairs were brought for the steward and his elder son; they sat on either side of the bed. Two bodyguards took up their posts outside the door. Later, a grey-haired servant came bearing a tray of bread and roast meat. With a sad glance at Faramir, she set it on the low table. Boromir thanked her, but the meal sat untouched. Every so often, the warden looked in on his charge, speaking quietly with the young healer before he left. The sunset over the mountain turned amber then red then faded to black. The somber old servant returned to light the oil lamps and close the wooden shutters.
His thoughts scattered and adrift, Denethor sat in the dimly-lit chamber. Oft and again, his head drooped forward, and then he would wake with a start. He was not unused to late hours, sometimes working until dawn, but he had not slept in three nights.
The prisoners were taken to a stone keep near the Citadel wall. As soon as they arrived, their guards unfastened the shackles and a healer was summoned to examine their injuries. Then they were escorted down a narrow flight of stairs and locked in a small cell. The only light was from a barred window that faced the Citadel wall. Two heavy, wooden bedsteads held straw mattresses; there was no chair or table. Eldahil looked with disgust at the bucket in the corner. His score with his cousin grew longer by the moment.
As darkness fell, they heard the distant sounds of revelry as the City rejoiced at the return of its favorite sons. Later, with much shouting and scuffling, three soldiers were shoved in the cell across the corridor. Their new comrades soon settled down and were snoring in a drunken slumber. Muttering an oath, Eldahil hid his head under the pillow.
By the cold light of dawn, the revelers awoke with curses and moans.
"Why did we do that? We should have known better than to play king's cup with those cavalrymen. Ow, it hurts too much to talk," one of the soldiers said.
"Indeed, it made good sense at the time," his friend replied then leaned over a bucket in a violent fit of retching. After what seemed like hours, he stopped.
"Raw eel and bitter almonds will soon set you to rights," Eldahil called across the corridor. "That is the cure that we use in Dol Amroth." As indeed I would know, he thought rather ruefully.
"But it is only May-eels are not in season," the third soldier said. "Perhaps our guards would bring a raw egg, for that is a well-known cure. But you have to eat the egg in one single swallow and you must not break the yolk."
The sick man gave a choked moan and leaned over the bucket again.
"Let us speak now of other things," Haldan said loudly.
Eldahil unraveled a long piece of thread from his blanket. Since his arm was broken, he asked Haldan to tie a loop in one end. Dropping the thread through the grate in the door, he tried to fish for the end of the bolt.
The three soldiers shouted advice across the passage. "Left!" "No, up!" "You almost snared it!"
After a while, Eldahil gave up and cast himself on the bed. "Why has no one sent for us? I do not know how long I can bear this." He had found a sharp chip of stone and was carving his name in the wood of the bedstead.
"Patience, Captain. We have been here for less than a day."
After he had finished inscribing his name, Eldahil scratched the image of a graceful cutter sailing the river. Bored and longing for his home, he added a square-rigged corsair ship and a great whale spouting a plume of seawater.
At first, Faramir knew nothing save a terrible thirst and then the bitter taste of poppies. It seemed he slept a long while. Drifting into waking, he would gaze from under his lashes at his father and brother, sitting close by his bed. He later remembered Denethor dozing in the chair, his head bowed to his breast, while Boromir rose from his seat and, like a sentry on the midnight watch, walked about the room to ward off sleep.
The pain had roused him from his heavy slumber, and always a healer would give him water and then the bitter draft. Slowly, his eyes would close as the dose of poppy wine drew him under the calm, black surface of sleep.
At last, he woke to find that the pain had lessened; and he felt, if not strong, at least clear-headed. "Thirsty," he said in a hoarse whisper. He was so parched that it hurt his throat to speak.
A chair crashed to the floor as Boromir started and jumped to his feet. "Faramir! You are awake!" he shouted. Swords drawn, the bodyguards rushed into the room. With a curt wave of his hand, the steward bid them put up their weapons, then he sent the two guards to find the warden.
"Rest easy, we will give you some water," his father told Faramir.
"Do not move him, my lord," the young healer said quickly. "We had best wait until the warden arrives." At her bidding, Boromir fetched a pitcher from the table. She soaked a cloth and used it to wet Faramir's mouth and cracked lips. Stumbling wearily, his brother dropped the pitcher. The pottery struck the floor and shattered with a splash.
"You were sitting in those chairs, I saw you both," Faramir said, his own voice sounding strangely faint and raspy. "It must have been night; the lamps were lit." And then he asked warily, "How long was I asleep?"
The warden, his face weary and full of care, hurried through the doorway. But when he saw Faramir talking with his father and brother, he smiled with relief. After looking for signs of fever or bleeding, he sent for a light meal. The healers settled Faramir against a stack of pillows, and then they fed him broth and gruel. The broth was salty and fragrant with herbs; he felt hungry for the first time in days.
With a tired but happy grin, Boromir watched him eat. "You gave us quite a turn," his brother told him.
When the healers were finished, his father leaned over and pushed the hair back from his forehead. "Rest, and you will soon be well." Denethor gave him a haggard smile.
Faramir murmured, "Yes, Father." He felt very weary and soon fell asleep.
When next he awoke, he was surprised to find Hirluin beside him, sitting in a chair. The young ranger was clothed in the black garb of a man at arms; it seemed strange that he was not wearing the woodland brown and green. He leaned to one side, propped up by the arm of the chair, and his head drooped forward so that the blond hair hid his face. On the other side of the bed, Boromir sat watching them both.
"Is he sleeping?" Faramir asked in a low voice.
Boromir walked over and waved a hand in front of Hirluin's face. "So it would seem. The healers would rather he stay in bed, but I had not the heart to send him away. And he is quiet enough company, even when awake." He laughed softly and shook his head. "Though the healers claim he was ever asking how you fared and would give them no peace. And as soon as he could walk, he slipped past his keepers and stole away to find you."
'He is a ranger and therefore well practiced in stealth," Faramir said lightly; though his heart ached, for he felt this man's devotion was wholly undeserved. Indeed, it seemed a most bitter reproach. His brother was watching him closely, his grey eyes intent, so Faramir pushed this thought aside. Instead, he asked, "Where is Father?"
"He went to take some rest; they say he has not slept in days. He said to tell you that he will be back ere sunset."
They were silent for a time. The weather had turned cool and wet since their return, and Faramir watched the rain dripping sadly from the eaves. He saw that the windowsills were crowded with pitchers of many shapes and sizes, all filled with bright flowers.
"The warden forbids any guests until you have grown somewhat stronger, yet a great host of people have brought gifts and letters," Boromir told him. "That table is covered with boxes of cakes. Here, let me read you some of the letters." Sitting on the end of the bed, he unrolled a piece of parchment. The young ranger still dozed in the chair so Boromir kept his voice down as he read.
After wishing Faramir well, most of his friends and relations offered advice about treating sword wounds and fevers. Several had even sent along flasks of healing cordials made from household recipes. Since he had been away in Ithilien for the last two months, his friends wrote of the doings, both great and small, of the City. After hearing the tale of a wild, midnight boat race, Faramir raised an eyebrow. "If Eldahil had been aboard that boat, they would easily have won the wager. By the way, how fares our deer-hunting cousin? Has he rejoined his company?"
"In truth, I have neither seen nor heard from him," Boromir said in some surprise.
Faramir stared at the flowers and boxes of sweets as he pondered this. The courtly Eldahil had gone back to Osgiliath without even leaving a note?
"Nor have I gotten a message from Haldan. And that is more than passing strange." Boromir rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Most likely the troop has returned to Osgiliath, but still he ought to send word."
"Perhaps you should write him a message. And ask if he has seen our errant kinsman."
"That I will do," Boromir said, and went to find a quill and parchment.
"Captain Haldan, I cannot do this without your aid."
The old soldier shook his grey head. "And, for the last time, I am telling you that I will not feign illness and fall to the floor in a swoon. Nor will I help you to attack the guard. Think you, Captain, how far would we get? Those steps lead right past the common room." Young Eldahil had done nothing whatsoever to deserve imprisonment. And Haldan swore by the Valar that he would keep it that way.
"My cousin has forgotten us. Must we sit here until we moulder?" The other man paced back and forth.
As much bored as angry, Haldan thought. "Patience, Captain, we have been here for only four days, and mayhap the steward has more pressing concerns." Sitting on the edge of the bed, he was polishing his boots for the third time that morning. The sound of cold rain on stone pavement drifted in the barred window. At least I need not ride in that downpour, Haldan said to himself. The dungeon was quiet; their comrades in the other cell had long since been sent back to their posts.
At midday, the captain of the Tower Guard brought them their meal. This man counted Haldan as an old friend so he made a rather hospitable jailer. Setting down a plate of meat pies, he said, "Mag the Cook sends these along with her best regards."
"A queen among cooks," Haldan said as he picked up a pie, the golden crust still warm from the oven.
"And I almost forgot—you received a letter. It was sent in error to your company in Osgiliath, though in the end the errand-riders found you." Their jailer held out a roll of parchment that was sealed with a blob of wax. A small note that said "To Captain Haldan, Osgiliath" was tied to it with twine. Haldan broke the seal and spread out the parchment.
To make Oxymel, a most helpful draft for fevers:
Take one part of sharply sour vinegar to two parts honey.
Add water in the same amount and boil over a slow-burning fire.
Skim off the brown scum—
He turned the page over; the other side was covered with Boromir's hasty scrawl.
Haldan,
The healers have found an empty room for me so for now I will stay here with Faramir. Though the warden says the danger is past, my brother will not be on his feet for some days. He is awake at present and sends you his warmest regards, but much of the time he sleeps. Hirluin is sitting beside my brother even as I write. Indeed, now that he has the strength to walk, the healers despair of keeping him in his bed. The warden says that Baran's arm is healing cleanly and he should soon rejoin you in Osgiliath. Baran worries about his horse Aeglos and asks that you look at her feet. Find out what weapons and gear were lost during our journey. If they were the men's own belongings, I would have them replaced at my cost. And if you chance to see my cousin Eldahil, tell him that I still owe him for the loan and loss of a sword.
With sincere regard,
Boromir
Written in the Houses of Healing
The morning of May 9th
"What says my noble cousin?" Eldahil asked.
Haldan rubbed a hand against his forehead. "He believes we are back in Osgiliath, and this was written two days ago."
"How could he not hear of our arrest?" Eldahil sat heavily on the bed and put his head in his hands with a groan.
"The healers say he scarcely leaves his brother's side," the Captain of the Tower Guard remarked. "If you wish, I could send him a message."
Their jailer brought quills, ink, and parchment. There was no table to write on, so the two men stood at the window, using the deep windowsill as a desk.
Twirling the feather pen between his thumb and forefinger, Eldahil looked up from his letter. "What should I call our food? Wretched provender? Or maybe miserable rations?"
Haldan looked over his shoulder. "Mistress Mag will box your ears if she sees that comment about her cooking. Foul dungeon? Captain, we are treated most kindly, and I for one have stayed in far worse places."
"However, you will agree that I spend my days eating meat pies and playing chess with Captain Haldan does not sound so very desperate."
The other man gave a short laugh then went back to writing. After penning a few more lines, Eldahil signed his letter with an elegant flourish.
A few hours later, they heard footsteps in the passage, then the rattle of bolts as the door was unlocked. Followed by two soldiers, the Captain of the Tower Guard entered the room and bowed slightly. "Captain Haldan, you are summoned to the Lord of the City."
Haldan rose from his seat on the bed and bowed in return.
His face turning red, their jailer cleared his throat. "However, Lord Denethor wishes to speak to you alone, without the presence of his bodyguards, so now I must do you a grave discourtesy." Turning to the soldiers, he ordered, "Bind his hands, but be careful with his wounded arm." The men stepped forward and turned the old captain to face the wall while Eldahil watched in silence. One of them bound the prisoner's hands behind his back.
Haldan saw the look on Eldahil's face. "Captain, for many years have I served the lord steward. I think you worry overmuch."
Eldahil did not reply, but he thought of their liege lord's cold, hawklike stare. After they had left, he walked over to the window and, resting his forehead against the bars, stared at the rain. Denethor ordered us brought here in chains; that hardly seems a good sign.
"And I nearly forgot! A messenger brought you these letters, my lord; left them early this afternoon, he did. You must forgive me. What with one thing and another, we have just been that busy." The old healer smiled and bobbed in a curtsy as she handed two pieces of parchment to Boromir. Then she turned to fuss over his brother, talking cheerfully as she straightened the coverlets and brought another pillow. Faramir seemed a little flustered by all this concern, but Boromir decided it could only do him good, and that he should leave his brother to the mercy of Dame Ioreth.
Ignoring the plea in Faramir's look, he walked to the window and stood in the dreary light. He glanced out at the garden; rain dripped from dark evergreens and beat down upon the flowers. The first letter, neatly folded in a square, was addressed in Haldan's precise, angular script-
To the Lord Captain Boromir
The Houses of Healing
Unfolding the parchment, Boromir read-
My lord,
I hear with great gladness that Lord Faramir's fever has broken and his shoulder wound at last is healing. Pray tell him that I send my respectful greetings. If you would take the counsel of an old campaigner, see that he eats plenty of mutton and red beef and also bitter greens. These foods have some healing virtue that helps the wounded recover their strength. Many healers swear by this cure.
Forgive me for bringing ill news when you are doubtless still weary from watching over your brother. Yet I deem that you are not aware of Captain Eldahil's plight, else would you have come to his aid. By order of the lord steward, he has been arrested and is charged with the crimes of desertion and theft. As you well know, he is blameless in this matter and I humbly ask you to clear his name.
The men returned to Osgiliath with Lord Brandir two days ago. He sends word that all is well with the company, both men and horses.
Respectfully,
Haldan
Written this 11th day of May
Boromir's hands trembled as he unfolded the second parchment. "My most noble kinsman Boromir" the letter began. A riot of elegant curlicues and loops ran across the page. The black tendrils reached down to snare the words in the next line below. Every so often, Boromir paused and squinted, trying to decipher a word.
My most noble kinsman Boromir,
Through no fault of my own, I was falsely arrested and led in chains through the streets of Minas Tirith. And now I am held prisoner in this damp and dreary cellar, with none to keep me company save drunken soldiers and the all-too-sober Captain Haldan. I spend my days praying for delivery and counting the cracks in the walls. The straw mattress on this bed is like unto a heap of jagged rocks, and our rations are both meager and wretched. Boromir, do you plan to rescue me any time soon? I grow weary of this foul dungeon.
And when next you speak with your noble father, you must put in a kind word for Captain Haldan. He is called a faithless deserter, and I fear that he will be most sharply punished by the stroke of a sword. He is a worthy and loyal officer who scarcely deserves such a fate.
I am told that Cousin Faramir has taken a turn for the better, and truly I am glad of this news. Pray give him my fond regards. Be sure to place a branch of the herb militaris under his pillow—it is said in Dol Amroth that this will staunch any bleeding.
Your devoted cousin,
Eldahil
Written the 11th day of May
Postscript—Boromir, make haste to free me from this dismal place!
Boromir swung around to face his brother. "I have to leave," he said abruptly.
"What has happened? Is there ill news?"
Cursing himself for a fool, Boromir shook his head and said, "There is an errand that I must attend to, but you need not worry. I will tell you about it when I return." Then he hurried out the door, before his clever brother had the chance to ask more questions. As he ran down the corridor, Ioreth's voice shrilled after him, "My lord! You forgot your cloak! It is raining, and you will catch your death!"
Notes:
Mag the Cook, who rules the kitchen in the Citadel, is an original character in just_ann_now's lovely stories.
Eldahil's mixture of raw eels and bitter almonds is an authentic medieval hangover cure, found during my research for this chapter. The raw egg is a more modern but equally useless remedy.
Eldahil suggests putting "the herb militaris" under Faramir's pillow. "Herb militaris" was a medieval name for yarrow, which was also known as woundwort because it was believed to help heal wounds.
